Actions and Consequences
by Ethanamide
Summary: John learns that his actions have consequences. A short one shot/drabble set post-TFP.


I should be updating other things, but you get this instead. John learns that his actions have consquences, enjoy.

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John let himself into 221 Baker Street on his way home, as was his routine on a Wednesday, Mrs Hudson had Rosie while he worked. Usually the pair shared a cup of tea, a biscuit and some idle chatter before John took his daughter home, today, however, Mrs Hudson had overheard something upstairs that she needed to consult John about. Apparently, Molly was acting in the role of Sherlock's doctor at the moment, and doing as much as she could to keep all traces of some incident off the books, as well as keeping an eye on his general health and organs – especially in the wake of the Culverton Smith case. John did his best to seem concerned and confused (although he hadn't seen Sherlock in a professional capacity since before Reichenbach, and it was hardly surprising that Molly would have taken up that role), nodding in the right places, and furrowing his brows when the older lady talked of broken ribs, and a ruptured spleen.

"…Oh he got so angry, I got half way up the stairs to tell him off for the noise, when I heard Molly say that if Sherlock didn't confront whoever had done the damage, then she would! I've got half a mind to give them a talking to myself," Mrs Hudson exclaimed, her tone leaving no argument that the other party in that discussion would not leave the room in the same state they went in. "His poor mother, what a year they've had! The shooting, the organ failure, and then to have all _that_ happen! We were having tea last Thursday, and she only found out about the drama behind the Smith case because Molly's been sending them copies of his medical notes, against Mycroft's wishes. You can see where Sherlock gets his temper from." She continued conspiratorially, taking another sip of her tea.

John looked at his watch, gulped down the last of his tea in one scalding mouthful, and made to get up,

"I ought to be off Mrs H, traffic is bad out there, and I'm trying to get Rosie in a routine," He got to the door, and found it had been locked behind him,

"I'm sure you can spare another 10 minutes, Rosie is upstairs with Sherlock," Mrs Hudson's smile did not quite reach her eyes.

"Why is the door locked," John asked, fighting to keep his voice level,

"It would appear you and I need to have a conversation John Watson. Sit down."

John did as he was told.

She demanded the whole story, and so John told the tale, sordid details and all. He told her everything from the Christening onwards, his non-affair with E/Eurus, Mary's death, Sherlock's guilt, the Smith case, right up to coming out of the well at Musgrave Hall. Much like Smith's own confession, once John started, he found it difficult to stop, and found himself on the receiving end of a nasty backhanded slap when he revealed the texts he'd sent. Mr Hudson had started much the same way (except not texting, dear, it was a bit before the digital age), and she was not going to condone it, or pardon him as easily as Sherlock.

It was not John's day. Once he'd finished his confession, none other than Molly Hooper appeared from the kitchen, looking like she'd overheard more than he would have liked her to. She threw a brown envelope down onto the table in front of him with such force that he flinched.

"Open it. Read it, and tell me he should still forgive you," She spat,

If John thought he'd seen her angry on that day in the lab, when they'd brought Sherlock in for a drugs test, he was sorely mistaken. Given how she'd reacted that day, and how she kept balling and unballing her fists, he did not fancy his chances. He read the file, from cover to cover, horrified by the abuse Sherlock's body and mind had taken over the last year or so. He scrutinised the test results, the x-rays and the scans to see the lengths his best-friend had gone to in order to bring him back to himself. It was humbling for the ex-army doctor, who had barely spent a second thought on the kicking he'd given Sherlock in the morgue that day.

The two women stood over John, reminding him of how his mother had looked when she was disappointed in him, except scarier, as these two could make him disappear, and even Sherlock Holmes wouldn't be able to find him, let alone trace it back to them.

"I forgave Mary, because he forgave Mary. She saved his life, you almost ended it. I'm not sure I can do the same this time." Molly stated, her tone deadly quiet.

"You know what you need to do, dear. Hop to it." Mrs Hudson both chastised and encouraged, there was no need for violence or explicit threats, John knew exactly what was being said.

An hour after he'd arrived, one very cowed Dr Watson made his way up the stairs into the first-floor flat. His daughter was asleep on the sofa, tucked up in blankets next to one tired looking Sherlock. John took a moment to truly look at the detective, seeing how thin his face had become, the rolled-up sleeves revealing scars left by injection sites amongst other things, as well as the posture of a man on edge. He knew that in part he was responsible for how drawn and ill his friend looked.

The apology was stilted, but heartfelt, and Sherlock repeated that he had already forgiven him for that.

"It is what it is, John. You have to live with that." Sherlock said as the doctor picked up his daughter, thinking of his late wife. "She knew, you know. If you couldn't hide things from me when you lived here, what chance did you have with her?"

The colour drained from John's face, of course she'd known. He'd been too wrapped up in himself to even think about how easily she must have read it off him.

"She was going to forgive you. You forgave her, after all," Sherlock continued, placing a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. John nodded absently, processing this new information, it seemed that even from beyond the grave his Mary was surprising him.

As he went to leave the building, Molly was waiting for him by the front door.

"Anger management and grief counselling, I know both of them personally, so you're in good hands." She said softly, handing him a couple of appointment cards.

He nodded and headed out of the door, mind made up that he would attend the psychotherapy. He needed to be a better friend, a better man. A man Mary would have been proud of, and one Rosie could depend on.


End file.
